Body Double

She pictured him walking into their house and finding her gone. He’ll see that my car is in the garage, and the chair’s on the floor, she thought. It won’t make sense, until he sees the ransom note. Until he reads the demand for money. You’ll pay it, won’t you?

Won’t you?

The flashlight suddenly dimmed. She snatched it up and banged it against her hand. It flickered brighter, just for a moment, then faded again. Oh god, the batteries. Idiot, you shouldn’t have left it on so long! She rummaged in the grocery sack and ripped open a fresh package of batteries. They tumbled out, rolling in every direction.

The light died.

The sound of her own breathing filled the darkness. Whimpers of mounting panic. Okay, okay, Mattie, stop it. You know you’ve got fresh batteries. You just have to slide them in the right way.

She felt around on the floor, gathering up the loose batteries. Took a deep breath and unscrewed the flashlight, carefully setting the cap on her folded knee. She slid out the old batteries, set them off to the side. Every move she made was in pitch blackness. If she lost a vital part, she might never find it again without light. Easy, Mattie. You’ve changed flashlight batteries before. Just put them in, positive end first. One, two. Now screw on the cap…

Light suddenly beamed out, bright and beautiful. She gave a sigh and slumped back, as exhausted as though she’d just run a mile. You’ve got your light back, now save it. Don’t run it down again. She turned off the flashlight and sat in darkness. This time her breathing was steady, slow. No panic. She might be blind, but she had her finger on the switch and could turn on the light any time. I’m in control.

What she could not control, sitting in the darkness, were the fears that now assailed her. By now Dwayne must know I’ve been kidnapped, she thought. He’s read the note, or gotten the phone call. Your money or your wife. He’ll pay it, of course he’ll pay it. She imagined him frantically pleading with an anonymous voice on the phone. Don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt her! She imagined him sobbing at the kitchen table, sorry, very sorry, for all the mean things he’d said to her. For the hundred different ways he had made her feel small and inconsequential. Now he was wishing he could take it all back, wishing he could tell her how much she meant to him…

You’re dreaming, Mattie.

She squeezed her eyes shut against an anguish so deep it seemed to reach in and grasp her heart in its cruel fist.

You know he doesn’t love you. You’ve known it for months.

Wrapping her arms around her abdomen, she hugged herself and her baby. Curled into a corner of her prison, she could no longer block out the truth. She remembered his look of disgust as she’d stepped out of the shower one night, and he had stared at her belly. Or the evenings when she would come up behind him to kiss his neck, and he’d wave her away. Or the party at the Everetts ’ house two months ago, where she had lost track of him, only to find him in the backyard gazebo, flirting with Jen Hockmeister. There’d been clues, so many clues, and she had ignored them all because she believed in true love. Had believed it since the day she’d been introduced to Dwayne Purvis at a birthday party, and had known that he was the one, even if there were things about him that should have bothered her. Like the way he always split the check when they were dating, or the way he couldn’t pass a mirror without fussing vainly with his hair. Little things that didn’t matter in the long run because they had love to keep them together. That’s what she’d told herself, pretty lies that were part of someone else’s romance, maybe a romance she’d seen in the movies, but not hers. Not her life.

Her life was this. Sitting trapped in a box, waiting to be ransomed by a husband who didn’t want her back.

She thought about the real Dwayne, not the make-believe one, sitting in the kitchen reading the ransom note. We have your wife. Unless you pay us a million dollars.. .

No, that was way too much money. No sane kidnapper would ask that much. What were kidnappers asking these days for a wife? A hundred thousand dollars sounded far more reasonable. Even so, Dwayne would balk. He’d weigh all his assets. The Beemers, the house. What’s a wife worth?

If you love me, if you ever loved me, you’ll pay it. Please, please pay it.

She slid to the floor, hugging herself, withdrawing into despair. Her own private box, deeper and darker than any prison anyone could shut her into.

“Lady. Lady.”

In mid-sob she froze, not certain she’d actually heard the whisper. Now she was hearing voices. She was going insane.

“Talk to me, lady.”

She turned on the flashlight and aimed it overhead. That’s where the voice had come from-the air grate.

“Can you hear me?” It was a man’s voice. Low, mellifluous.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Did you find the food?”

“Who are you?”

“Be careful with it. You have to make it last.”

“My husband will pay you. I know he will. Please, just let me out of here!”

“Are you having any pains?”

“What?”

“Any pains?”

“I just want to get out! Let me out!”

“When it’s time.”

“How long are you going to keep me in here? When are you going to let me out?”

“Later.”

“What does that mean?”

No answer.

“Hello? Mister, hello? Tell my husband I’m alive. You tell him he has to pay you!”

Footsteps creaked away.

“Don’t go!” she screamed. “Let me out!” She reached up and pounded on the ceiling. Shrieked: “You have to let me out!”

The footsteps were gone. She stared up at the grate. He said he’ll be back, she thought. Tomorrow he’ll be back. After Dwayne pays him, he’ll let me out.

Then it occurred to her. Dwayne. The voice in the grate had not once mentioned her husband.

FIFTEEN

JANE RIZZOLI DROVE like the Bostonian she was, her hand quick to hit the horn, her Subaru weaving expertly past double-parked cars as they worked their way to the Turnpike on-ramp. Pregnancy had not mellowed her aggression; if anything, she seemed more impatient than usual as traffic conspired to hold them up at every intersection.

“I don’t know about this, Doc,” she said, fingers drumming the steering wheel as they waited for a red light to count down. “This is just go

“At least I’ll know who my mother is.”

“You know her name. You know the crime she committed. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it’s not.”

Behind them, a horn honked. The light had turned green.

“Asshole,” said Rizzoli, and she roared through the intersection.

They took the Massachusetts Turnpike west to Framingham, Rizzoli’s Subaru dwarfed by threatening convoys of big rigs and SUVs. After only a weekend on the quiet roads of Maine, it was a shock for Maura to be back on a busy highway, where one small mistake, one moment’s inattention, was all it took to close the gap between life and death. Rizzoli’s quick and fearless driving made Maura uneasy; she, who never took chances, who insisted on the safest car and double air bags, who never let her gas gauge fall below a quarter full, did not easily cede control. Not when two-ton trucks were roaring only inches from her window.

It wasn’t until they’d exited the Turnpike, onto Route 126 through downtown Framingham, that Maura settled back, no longer poised to clutch the dashboard. But she faced other fears now, not of big rigs or hurtling steel. What she feared most was coming face-to-face with herself.

And hating what she saw.

“You can change your mind anytime,” said Rizzoli, as though reading her thoughts. “You ask, and I’ll turn the car around. We can go to Friendly’s instead, have a cup of coffee. Maybe some apple pie.”